the perfect crime #2
decemberists, the
of the passion of the pistol
of the warning by the whistle
on a night so dark in the waning
a dawn obscured by slate-sky raining
five and twenty burglars by the reservoir
a teenage lookout on the signal tower
the mogul's daughter in hog-tie
the mogul fingers the wrong guy
the bagman's quaking at the fingers
the hand-off glance a little lingers
a well-dressed man in the crosshairs
a shot rings out from somewhere upstairs
it was like a ticker-tape parade
when the plastique on the safe was blown away
and we all gaze from eye to eye
as we mouth our silent goodbyes
the valley's sleeping like a bastard
it stinks of slumber and disaster
two words are spoken with tap-wire
the agent's ploy finds a sure-fire backfire